He chanced to change his course, and went,

by a red, rust-heavy gate,

<a href="|" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>

down a factory-path,

to a place where the late

lords and ladies painted a neon-epitaph

on a winking weight.

Frillies, in flung bowls,

were everywhere in sight, and the red-petalled water-powers,

feigning blood, burnt their angering coals

in liquid towers.

Men toiled and were blasted or baked,

and the lords and ladies painted

a chitterling-weight – though they seemed depressed by their task,

and he noticed each wore a politic mask.

<a href="" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>


What do you think?

Written by Jonathan Finch